


Stars and Space

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Keithtober 2019 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Keith (Voltron) is overwhelmed, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Keithtober 2019, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, healthy relationship, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: He's better at this whole "star status" thing, but he's not perfect. There are still days when Keith needs space.-----First piece for Keithtober 2019. Prompt: "Stars and Space"





	Stars and Space

**Author's Note:**

> Keithtober prompt day 1: Stars and Space
> 
> This is only lightly edited as I'm currently sick and kind of feverish.
> 
> Happy Keithtober, one and all!

Transitioning the Blade of Marmora into a humanitarian group under the public scrutiny of his newfound celebrity as one of the saviours of the universe is more than a little tricky, but Keith manages pretty well.

He’s already used to keeping a low profile, so avoiding paparazzi comes like second nature. Crouching behind a dumpster, having slipped out a back staircase and up to the roof and down a fire escape clinging lazy clinging to the brick wall, Lance had once accused him incredulously, “You actually enjoy this don’t you? You _like _ running from the paps, you utter freak of nature!”

(Keith had smirked at him. “I like _ pissing off _ the paps,” he’d corrected, “Why do you think I skipped at the Garrison so much?”)

He doesn’t see the point in using the internet for anything but keeping in touch with the team (and maybe watching a few dog videos—_because he had to train Kosmo_, he’ll have you know, and _ not_, no matter what Lance says, because he discovered wigglebutts), so he’s mostly unaware of the gaggle of fans and hashtags (whatever those are) that Lance seems obsessed with. 

He’s even gotten better with the public speaking aspect. He’s slower to anger. He listens more openly. He’s had sit-down after sit-down with Shiro and Krolia and Kolivan until their advice has _stuck_. It’ll never be something he enjoys, but it’s something he can at least pull off; a necessary, but relatively harmless, evil.

But even then, having said all that, there are days.

There are days when he feels stretched out and overexposed, overheating like the world’s got him under a magnifying glass in the sun. It’s easier in space, when he’s with his fellow Blades on some war-torn planet, steeped in the endless fiddly coordination of humanitarian aid. There are no cameras, no microphones; no magnifying glasses singing the skin on his back as he tries to explain his motives and choices to a world that somehow both idolizes and despises him. 

Sometimes there are just too many days in a row filled with meetings and justifications and _ people_.

He knows it’s going to be one of those days as soon as he steps out the door for coffee.

Lance is still asleep upstairs, splayed over most of their bed, mouth probably in that cute little pout it had been in when Keith had left him with promises to return with caffeine (the good shit, from their favourite cafe around the corner). They’ve been in the apartment for a few weeks now while Keith deals with the latest round of government funding and Lance deals with supplier snags, so the paps have got a good stakeout going. He hears the distant fluttering clicks of a camera as he steps out into the sun, and it gets on his nerves in a way it hasn’t for a while. It creates a specific agitation, like a mosquito bite on the bottom of his foot; unignorable, no matter how hard he tries.

A child looks up at him with comically wide eyes as he rounds the corner on his way back with a double americano in one hand and a vanilla latte with extra whip in the other. The smile he gives in return is tight; forced. He takes a knee to look the kid in the eye, and answers all his questions (spit rapid-fire with barely a breath between them), and poses for a picture, and by the time he gets back upstairs with yet more camera clicks echoing from across the street, both their coffees have gone cold.

“It’s okay,” Lance assures him as he sits stiffly at the kitchen counter, boxed in with his palms itching for a bike or a ship or _ anything _ that can get him somewhere uninhabited. “Was the kid at least cute?”

Keith does little more than shrug in response, then wordlessly pulls out his phone to start going over press conference notes. He’s due in a few hours for an update on a particularly sticky situation on a nearby planet, and he knows already he’s going to have to focus extra hard to clear the static in his brain enough to get through it.

Lance kisses him on the forehead and silently leaves the kitchen. (Keith loves him a little more for it, as impossible as that is.)

It’s just one of those days where his patience, ineffable as it’s become, breeds little focus. He’s too riled up with no outlet; full of too many words that make him uncomfortable at the best of times. He can handle it—of course he can. He’s handled an entire _ war_, handled the leadership of a team built to fight aliens, handled _ being _ an alien. He can handle a little star status.

It’s just exhausting, is all.

He’s exhausted by the time they’re pulling up to the venue, flashes already going off in the fading light. He’s exhausted as he’s led through throngs of media and he’s exhausted as he’s briefed on the setup and he’s exhausted as he hits the stage.

It shows.

His delivery is lackluster.

His answers are blunt and fragmented.

He stares blandly at yet another thinly veiled accusation about galra-human relations poorly disguised as a question and intones, “We’re done here,” and walks off-stage the way he hasn’t done since he was new to this whole thing.

“You can’t just _ leave_,” someone—probably his media coordinator, Xander—says as he makes for the exit.

Keith stills.

It’s true; he can’t.

He knows there must be dozens of photos of him by now, frozen just off-stage. The camera clicks pop in his head, loud and distinct, and he can’t breathe. They smell like burning dust. The reflections of their flashes make grotesque shadows on the walls of his own prone form.

Then Lance is there, slipping an arm around his shoulders and whispering, “Let me razzle dazzle ‘em, pop star. I’ll see you in space,” and kissing him on the cheek (even though the lights have made the skin there drip) and pushing him out of the cameras’ view even as he steps into it himself.

He doesn’t catch how Lance covers for him. He’s already at the back entrance by the time his boyfriend’s hit the first step onto the stage. Security will be furious—they always are when he slips off like this—but he can handle another stern talking to from Kolivan’s beefy nephew if it means getting out of there as quickly and quietly as possible.

‘_I'__ll see you in space_.’

God, it had been so different when this—when _ they_—had first started. He still remembers their fights; the way Lance had crowded in, trying to impress his love and comfort onto Keith and not understanding that more contact was just part of the problem; the way Keith hadn’t been able to articulate the way he could be fine—could be fine, fine, _ fine—_at a bunch of public engagements in a row and then not fine at all at the next.

It had taken a while, but Lance had been determined to _ get it_, and Keith had been so taken aback by that determination that he’d opened up almost in spite of himself. Now Lance gets it more than Keith himself does. Now Lance does ridiculous, perfect things like take over for him at a press conference he hasn’t been briefed on and (Keith finds out upon sneaking into the back alley) leave Keith’s bike for him to find outside.

‘_I’ll see you in space_.’

He’s on Burgundy before the door shuts behind him (a _ dumb _ name, but one he can’t change now; not after Lance had balked at his suggestion of _ Red _ and insisted, all cute and offended, “There’s only _ one _ Red, Keith! What would she say if she could hear you now? Replacing her with a _ hovercycl_. She was a _ sentient space lion _ , she doesn’t share her name!” He’d sputtered so long when Keith had jokingly thrown _ Burgundy _ out there that the former black paladin could do nothing but keep it). He’s on the road out of town five minutes after that, speeding with his helmet off so he’s more likely to be recognized and therefore less likely to be given a ticket (small perks, immoral as they are: he’ll take them).

He goes to space.

It’s what they call the little spot they’ve carved out in the desert for times like this. Lance had been the one to find it, after they’d tried to go back to the shack or the cave where they’d found Blue only to find both places crawling with amateur explorers; people wanting to see Voltron’s beginnings on Earth, and fans wanting a glimpse into their younger lives, and even a few people selling fake knick-knacks or guided tours. Keith had felt violated in a way he couldn’t specify, and it had been a punched out sort of violent relief when Lance had driven him out weeks later to what would eventually become their_ space_.

It’s a level, elevated plateau. To reach it properly requires one of Shiro’s patented death drops from an outcropping above, and even that’s a fair jaunt off some back roads. To this day, Keith has no idea how Lance found it. His only explanation had been, “Don’t underestimate what I would do for you, team leader,” and he’d proven it when, to Keith’s surprise and amazement, he’d driven them into the drop himself, screaming in utter terror the whole time. (“A whole space war,” he grumbles every time they come out, “and I _ still _ hate those stupid drops.”)

The thing is, it’s isolated, yeah, which helps. And it’s in the desert, so it feels familiar. But the best part about it, the reason they call it _ space _ at all, is that it’s the closest he can come to feeling like he’s up there again without leaving the ground.

He skids Burgundy to a stop and hops off before the dust has settled and practically runs for the centre of the clearing. And he flops down onto his back and lets sand settle in his hair and shakes as though he’s a lizard trying to burrow in for protection and just—

Looks up.

It’s not far enough from the city that light pollution isn’t a factor. The milky way doesn’t stretch on before him. It’s a hazy sort of night and the moon is a dull yellow, waxing lazy and low in the sky.

But he looks up, and there’s nothing there; nothing between him and space.

And he looks to his left, and to his right, and down at his feet, and up over his head, and there’s nothing, _ anywhere_, between him and space.

It’s the closest he can get to feeling that small, insignificant, dwarfed feeling he gets when he leaves Earth’s atmosphere. He feels like everything is bigger than him, like the emptiness of all that _ out there _ could suddenly turn liquid and drown them all in a tidal wave of dark matter. It should be scary; it _ is _ scary, a little. But it threatens everything. It’s not just Keith being pressed in on, it’s the whole fucking world, and he feels a little better about that; a little less alone and freakish in his claustrophobia.

“Of course you’d go to the least populated place to stare at empty space and feel _ claustrophobic_,” Lance had laughed when he’d tried to explain. “You make no sense and I love you.”

(He _ does _ make sense, he’ll have Lance know. He’s just a little...idiosyncratic.)

(Anyway, it hadn’t mattered. The comment hadn’t upset him the way it might have in months or years prior. After all, Lance doesn’t make much sense, either, in Keith’s opinion, and he loves him for it, too.)

He hears Lance coming. His shriek on the way down nearly drowns out Aqua’s engine. (“_Aqua_?” Keith had repeated dryly, and Lance had grinned. “I needed something ridiculous enough to match _ Burgundy_. Plus, I _ am _ a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world, so it kills two birds with one stone.” At Keith’s blank stare, Lance had _ balked_, and forced song after screechy song on him, and he _ hadn’t _ liked it, not at all. Hadn’t sneakily added it to his workout playlist, and hadn’t slipped up, when Lance mentioned that he was making a doctor’s appointment, and asked if “Barbie girl” was “heh, _ calling Dr. Jones_”; _ no matter what Lance says_.)

He lands on his back beside Keith with a huff. “There were _ aliens_. A whole space war against giant purple _ aliens_…”

“And you still hate that drop.”

Lance sighs. “It’s gotten easier. The screaming helps.”

Keith laughs. He doesn’t realize until it comes to him so quickly that he’s feeling a bit better. His diaphragm pulls a little easier. He reaches out to touch Lance, just a hand on his wrist, under his jacket. There’s reassurance in it, and invitation as he presses two fingers to the pulse there.

And beautiful, touch-heavy, patient Lance melts into the invitation. He presses his body up against Keith’s side the way Keith knows he’s been wanting to do since he hit their space, but hasn’t because he always has to make sure Keith’s okay first; always pauses to make sure Keith’s gotten enough of his space before pushing in the way he needs (to prove it’s _ theirs _ again).

“How’d the conference pan out?”

“How do you think, with me on the podium? You have nothing to worry about!”

“Right, and how did it really go?”

“Hey, _ rude_. _ One _ of us actually _ listens _ when Shiro tells them how to handle these things. I’m practically a PR _ pro_, I should open my own firm.”

Keith gives good side eye, if he does say so himself. Lance breaks with a little nervous chuckle. “Alright, alright, I deflected like my life depended on it and we shut things down as soon as we could. Xander’s _ pissed_, you know. He called your mom, so you can look forward to _ that _ little ‘what the hell are you doing with my Blades’ talk.”

He can’t wait.

“Don’t think about it right now,” Lance says. “Space and liquid black matter and everyone all crushed in like you and all that junk. Focus on that.”

“Can I focus on you, instead?”

Keith’s hand wanders over to Lance’s face; pulls it up into a lazy kiss.

“Dude,” Lance complains afterward. “Sand, though.”

“There’s no sand in my mouth.” Keith kisses him again. “And don’t call me dude when I’m kissing you.”

“Alright, bro.”

“Lance.”

“Homie.”

“_Lance_.”

“My main, most awesomest manski.”

He shoves him back into the sand to shut him up, and swings a leg over his hips, and kisses him until his self indulgent laughter turns into a little pleased hum that tells him he’s found the right rhythm. Lance has a _ thing _ about this part, and Keith certainly has no problem indulging him. They kiss until Keith’s lips go a little tingly with it, until Lance’s fingers in his hair have shaken all the sand free, until they’re hard and grinding in little involuntary jerks.

And then _ finally _ Lance is pushing at his shoulders, unbuttoning his own jeans, saying, “Please get your mouth on me,” because he knows what it does to Keith when he’s told exactly what to do to get Lance there. He settles between Lance’s legs with his hands braced on either side of his hips to hold himself up on all fours.

“Dude, _ sand_,” Lance laughs, but it’s breathy this time, and Keith just raises an eyebrow up at him and wraps his mouth around his cock where he’s been holding it up by the base, and he stops laughing after that.

Sometimes Lance likes to tease himself. He likes to ask Keith to slow down, speed up, slow down, wait, wait, _ wait_, now _ please _ all the way in, until his thighs are trembling and he can’t hold it and all his requests just become _ yeahKeithyeahyeahyeah_. Tonight he asks for it hard and quick from the get-go, and Keith’s glad for it, because he’s eager to please. He wants Lance _ now_, wants as much of him as he can get, wants him inside in a way no one else will ever be no matter how much they pry or close in around him.

He doesn’t have the same hang-ups as Lance. He hastily brushes his left hand against his jeans and pulls himself out and it’s good enough for him. Plus he knows what this visual does for Lance. He makes sure his shoulder works in time with his hand so there’s no mistaking what he’s doing.

As predicted, a minute later, Lance is grabbing fistfuls of dust and letting out a series of shaky moans and tensing his thighs around Keith’s head as he comes into his mouth. He swallows as best he can; loses a little out the sides, but it doesn’t matter. Lance makes as if to move, but Keith surges down until his mostly hard cock is filling his mouth again. He hisses, but settles quickly.

“Like this, hm?” he asks, and cards a hand through Keith’s hair as he works himself faster and faster between his legs, running the flat of his tongue over Lance’s spent dick in his mouth. “Want me to be inside when you come?”

He has the presence of mind to aim down into the sand as his orgasm rolls up his spine. Lance gives a little pained groan as Keith sucks in a little, his tongue still braced against his oversensitive flesh, but he sticks it out.

They settle without speaking into their earlier position, Lance sliding half onto Keith’s chest as they catch their breaths. He savours the sweet familiarity in it, and kisses Lance even though his lips are mostly numb.

“Are…” Keith looks back up at all that blackness just waiting to fall in on them all. “‘Are _ you _ okay? I know before...I just kind of left you there to deal with all that.”

“Keith…” Lance pulls his face back down with one hand. His long fingers have gotten cold. He looks up seriously, right into Keith’s eyes, his face open and earnest.

“The camera _ loves me_.”

Keith groans.

“Are you serious?”

“It _ loves me_, Keith. I’ll never regret any opportunity to grace it with this beautiful face.”

“Are you _ actually serious _ right now?”

“It’s a burden, I must admit. But I must do what I must do.”

“Get off me, I’m going home.”

“I must pose when I must pose."

"I must gag when I must gag."

"The people deserve this flawless visage, Keith.”

He kisses him to shut him up. And for a while their space isn’t a universe threatening to suffocate them, and it’s not two stars born in a supernova of war who don’t know how to live as constellations to be stared at.

It’s just laughter, and kisses, and love, and stars, and space.

**Author's Note:**

> 3,100 words. I need to take it back several notches if I want to finish more than two of these things this month, I meant for these drabbles to be _short_.
> 
> Come hang with me on Twitter for extra spicy threads and an all-around rad time. [@BefriendingM](https://twitter.com/BefriendingM)


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